Friday, September 17, 2004
staring at the sun
the edges of understanding are often sharpened through the quiet eyes of children.
in this case, my nephew and niece.
two weeks ago, as the hurt of leaving my own fantastical environment (NYC) was setting in, i was in Houston, being weirded out by horrid weather, unchanging friends and a cemented sense of nationalism (read: Southern patriotism). then, i went to soccer practice.
at my brother's behest, i accompanied him to my nephew's practice. it was one of the greatest days i've had in a while. in between observing a handful of five-year olds, squirming around soft sunlight in the joyous destruction of patience, i realized how much of my days as a yungwun i had forgotten. tiny moments where memory paints itself white and drizzles into quiet days. like little league baseball practices or walking a girl home after school. why do we remember what we do?
after hitting the practice field hard, we went home and found some catfish on the grill and a weird little girl in the living room. my niece, of course. after hearing of how she likes bjork and the flaming lips (hey, this kid has better taste in music than most people my age), i asked her to write me a story. one involving a rabbit, Benjamin Franklin and Alexander the Great's horse, Bucephalus (which is also the title of an Aphex Twin cut). she tackled the challenge head-on and after a cartoon break she crafted a wonderful tale about the adventures of a rabbit, Ben Franklin and Bucephalus that centered itself around Ben's inventions. warmth, either from Houston's achingly horrid humidity, or from my heart, coated me.
as down on the world as i can be sometimes, its moments like these--being let into the hyperspace of a seven-year old's brain--that solidify any sense of honor in the graying ideas of imagination, free thinking and an ancient Greek ruler's horse.
as Gabriel Garcia Marquez once said, "there's more magic in everyday life than could ever be thought up in a novel"
play soccer. write stories.
|
in this case, my nephew and niece.
two weeks ago, as the hurt of leaving my own fantastical environment (NYC) was setting in, i was in Houston, being weirded out by horrid weather, unchanging friends and a cemented sense of nationalism (read: Southern patriotism). then, i went to soccer practice.
at my brother's behest, i accompanied him to my nephew's practice. it was one of the greatest days i've had in a while. in between observing a handful of five-year olds, squirming around soft sunlight in the joyous destruction of patience, i realized how much of my days as a yungwun i had forgotten. tiny moments where memory paints itself white and drizzles into quiet days. like little league baseball practices or walking a girl home after school. why do we remember what we do?
after hitting the practice field hard, we went home and found some catfish on the grill and a weird little girl in the living room. my niece, of course. after hearing of how she likes bjork and the flaming lips (hey, this kid has better taste in music than most people my age), i asked her to write me a story. one involving a rabbit, Benjamin Franklin and Alexander the Great's horse, Bucephalus (which is also the title of an Aphex Twin cut). she tackled the challenge head-on and after a cartoon break she crafted a wonderful tale about the adventures of a rabbit, Ben Franklin and Bucephalus that centered itself around Ben's inventions. warmth, either from Houston's achingly horrid humidity, or from my heart, coated me.
as down on the world as i can be sometimes, its moments like these--being let into the hyperspace of a seven-year old's brain--that solidify any sense of honor in the graying ideas of imagination, free thinking and an ancient Greek ruler's horse.
as Gabriel Garcia Marquez once said, "there's more magic in everyday life than could ever be thought up in a novel"
play soccer. write stories.
